To Touch Eternity
by plutoniumtangent
Summary: "Death holds no sway over him. It has been a constant presence in his life for as long as he can remember, ever since he was a boy serving in his father's fleet. Now, nothing sickens him anymore, except for maybe himself." A different version of Norrington's death from AWE. OneShot.


When he looks at her, he knows it will be the last time he sees her in this life.

"Come with us," she asks, and it nearly tears his heart in two. She looks at him, her eyes pleading, and she whispers it again. "James, come with me."

For an instant she makes him believe that it's possible. Maybe he really can rewind clock and atone for his many sins... Dear God, how he wishes he could go back, back to anywhere, anytime before he had laid eyes on the wretched heart of Davy Jones. He could even accept living out the rest of his years as a drunken vagrant in Tortuga. At least even then he had still possessed some remnant of his soul, before he had sold that remnant to Cutler Beckett for a title and a ship. He had been a fool then.

Only recently has he stopped being a fool.

Even so, he knows that the past cannot be changed. He knows that the massive amount of damage he has caused across the globe can never be undone, but maybe it can be countered. Maybe he can begin again, here and now. Maybe, if he lives, he can put some equivalent measure of good back into the world.

It's a pleasant fantasy.

William Turner's deranged father bellows from one deck above, and the fantasy shatters. He feels fear shoot through him, but not for himself, and he draws his sword. Death holds no sway over him now. It has been a constant presence in his life for as long as he can remember, ever since he was a boy serving in his father's fleet. He has seen men shredded to bits by musket shot, dismembered by cutlasses, beheaded by cannonballs. Nothing sickens him anymore, except for maybe himself.

He suddenly knows what his one measure of good must be.

He looks at Elizabeth and wonders if she can see the sadness inside him. "Go. I will follow," he tells her, and his voice trembles with the thought that if he fails, she will die.

"You're lying," she says softly, sounding almost wounded, and they both know that she's right.

He doesn't know what else to tell her, except maybe that this is how it is meant to end.

"Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth," he says after a moment, struggling to find the proper words. He tries to pour everything he has never said, everything he has always felt, into one final, lingering look. "But never joined," he finishes sorrowfully, and without thinking he leans forward to press his lips to hers. He wants to do so much more than that, and it pains him to know that he will never be able to. But she returns the kiss, and that is almost consolation enough. He pulls away from her and their eyes meet again.

"Go, now," he orders, his voice breaking along with his heart, and she scrambles onto the railing of the ship just as Bootstrap Bill appears, cutlass in hand. Bootstrap charges forward with a crazed look, chanting like a lunatic, but it's easy to knock aside the fish-man's blade and land a solid kick into his chest, sending him to the deck.

He hears the thud of running steps and turns to watch two more crew members jump the line and scurry after Elizabeth, who is not yet halfway across.

Any hope he might have had of escape dies. In one deft movement he pulls the pistol from within his admiral's coat, levels the barrel at the empty length of rope still remaining between Jones's men and the woman he loves, and pulls the trigger. The rope snaps cleanly in two, sending Elizabeth into the water, unable to be followed.

"Part of the ship, part of the _crew!_"

He turns towards the voice, coming face to face again with Bootstrap Bill who wildly slashes. The pistol drops from his hand, his sword instinctively rises, and he parries the blow, leaving the fish-man wide open. The rage and sadness inside him tear loose, and with an inhuman cry of fury he throws his weight into Boostrap's body and rams him against the railing, viciously grabbing the fish-man's jacket and shoving.

William Turner the Senior tumbles into the sea.

There is a deathly silence following the splash, and he watches as the_ Empress_ grows smaller in the distance. Then, with a weary sigh, he reaches up and sweeps off his hat and wig, tossing them into the water below. If he is to die here, then he will die as James Norrington, not as a pawn or symbol of the East India Trading Company.

He hears the sound of dozens of boots running on the deck accompanied by the ghoulish cries of their owners, and he steels himself for the onslaught.

When they finally appear, they flood in from every side, and he holds them off with a ferocity that even he didn't know he possessed. They never fall, because they cannot die, and when his breath has grown ragged and the sweat is dripping from his brow, the first mistake is made.

He barely feels the bite of the blade as it cuts into his back, only aware of a stinging and a wet warmth, but he knows he is somehow weaker.

The second blow he sees, time slowing as he watches the cutlass come down and dig halfway through his arm, and an impossible amount of blood sprays from the wound. He gasps as hot flecks hit his face, his fingers going numb and limp, and his sword falls to the deck.

Reality seems to pull away and he looks down, the sleeve of his navy coat stained black, a steady trickle of crimson dripping from his hand and pooling next to the intricate hilt of his blade. Darkness threatens the edges of his vision and all he can hear is the pounding in his ears, drowning out the jeering cries of Jones's crew as they watch their admiral die. When they suddenly grow still and he feels the boards of the deck vibrate with an ominous rhythm, he knows the captain is coming.

He watches as Jones pushes through the crowd, and he meets the heartless stare of glacial blue with burning defiance. Jones bares his teeth in a mirthless grin, breaking into laughter that seems to come from a thousand leagues away, before reaching down and curling a tentacled finger around the gold filigree handle.

"James Norrington–"

He sees Jones press the reddened blade against his shoulder, but he feels nothing, not even when the tip slices through the silken blue and draws fresh blood.

"Do you fear death?"

He knows the answer before the question is even finished. And he knows that even if he was terrified the answer would still be the same, because he has had enough of making deals to save himself, and because he has no soul left to trade.

He decides that neither will he give them the satisfaction of having a corpse to defile.

He casts a glance behind to find that the _Empress_ has gone, and the sight of the empty horizon almost makes him smile. Then he pulls away from his own blade, turning his back on the face of hell itself and reaching out to touch the railing. In one decisive movement, he doubles over it.

James Norrington tumbles into the sea.

He feels the long fall. It seems to take a lifetime for him to hit the waves, but when he does the salt explodes his wounds like gunpowder and he cries out, his mouth flooding with water. He watches the lights of the _Dutchman_ blink out as he sinks into eternity, the blackness in his vision expanding, the roar of the ocean and rush of blood dwindling to silence. And when the coldness of the deep begins to press in around him, he welcomes the touch of ice.

Just before he loses consciousness forever, he could swear he feels her hand in his.


End file.
